


Angel

by Microdigitalwaker



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Family, Fantasy, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27675520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Microdigitalwaker/pseuds/Microdigitalwaker
Summary: Reposting this story that I kept turning over in my head.  Eventually a lot of other POI characters show up and the rating will increase to M or E.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

The Mechanic sets up his booth inside the village's great hall, spreading his wares both big and small. Called a wizard by some, Hal Birdsong prefers the magic of the mundane: unbreakable wagon wheels, hell, unbreakable brakes, pulleys of every size and clocks and a machine he's recently invented that can cut wooden shingles faster than any ax. All this and more for the small dot on the map called Sheeps Meadow Village, Greater Central Park, on the Isle of Manhattan.

Must be getting on in years, Hal tells himself as he runs his cold hands above the convenient brazier currently warming a kettle belonging to his neighbor, the village's herbalist. Her name is Joan but the villagers call her the Potioner.

"Business still slow?" Her voice is kind and he knows she's sympathetic. It's midwinter and Joan's doing bang up business with her elixirs and tinctures for treating colds and burns from hurdling too closely around the hearth. Pouring them both a mug of mulled wine, there's barely time to sip before a rush of farmers and swineherds storm, the eldest of them depositing a lumpy bundle, a small, quivering lump wrapped in a blanket of dubious cleanliness.

The man, Greer, steps away from the table, his lip curled with disgust. "What make you of this?"

It's a scene replayed every few months for the Mechanic, known by just a few as Hal, is considered the wisest person in town and every two headed lamb or glowing bit of bark is brought for his consideration.

Struck by an inexplicable frisson, his hand trembles as he pushes aside the top layer of blanket. And just as quickly, he feels light with relief. "A baby?"

Almost a year old he thinks, more experts judging copper and wood. Gingerly, he lifts the child, whose skin as pale as lard and whose quiff of mousey brown hair sticks up like the bristles of a scrub brush.

"A boy," Hal laughs, holding the child at arms length as a stream of urine flows dangerously close to his wares. "Healthy enough, by the look of him."

Greer grabs the child roughly, rudely, turning him face away.

Hal's jaw drops but he doesn't gasp like the rest. He traces the baby's little pair of downy wings, entranced, whipering "Aren't you a darling?"

As the worried whispers grow as a wave crashes the beach, the half-sleeping babe's droopy eyelids flash wide at the upset roar aimed at him.

"His eyes!" gasps a nearby crone. The Mechanic groans internally as he notices the crone and more flashing evil eye gestures towards the child. He gasps himself, however, when he gets a good look. 

It's not that blue eyes are impossible, he reminds himself. Why just last year down at the fishing pond a mare foaled a colt that was white than snow and had eyes that were a clear, winter blue with pink pupils.

It was immediately destroyed.

"Remember that colt," Joan comments worriedly. 

"Aye, the colt!" picks up a member of the crowd. "There's no fish in the pond anymore because the filthy thing brought bad luck."

"It was the Miller dumping barrels of lye in the pond that killed the fish!" Hal protests, clutching the baby, stepping back. "This little one is lucky."

Greer lunges to grab but the Mechanic is too quick. 

"Just let us take care of it," Greer sneers. "I promise I'll be quick."

The baby twists so that he and Hal are face to face, holding up hands to pat his tired, seamed face. 

Blue but grey, too, like the ocean, like the moon on certain nights; his defenses fall and he suddenly knows what to do. He finds the closest blade among his wares and slices the tip of his right forefinger. 

"This child is mine," he tells the crowd. "Blood of my blood," he continues, drawing an 'H' above the boy's finely molded brow. "Let no harm come to him lest you face my wrath." The Mechanic kisses the baby's head. "His name is Harold."

*

Per tradition, the townsfolk lined up to acknowledge Harold, softly touching his arm or foot (a few of the boldest, his little wings) while repeating his name. Even Greer, who pinches Harold's toe, hard.

Before the Mechanic can respond, a bullet in the form of a black-haired little girl head butts Greer, dropping him to the rough cobblestone floor, grasping his crotch.

"Sameen!" gasps Joan, hurrying to remove her foster daughter lest she do more damage.

"Brat!" snarls Greer, wey-faced and shaking. "Another bit of bad luck she is, orphaned before she'd cut her first tooth. We should make it a two for one deal and rid the town of both..."

Clutching Harold close, Hal moves to flee but stops in his tracks as the crowd suddenly surround Greer and his little gang. Moving as a body, they eject them from the hall, chanting, "Harold," as Greer slips on the rain slick road, falling again.

*

Something tugs at Hal's jacket. He looks down and sees Sameen, a child of few words but great intensity.

"Up," she says, raising her arms and Hal obliges, lifting her so that she and Harold are face to face.

They are roughly the same size but Hal is sure that she is older, if only by a bit - girls do develop faster, they say.

She solemnly stares at Harold and Harold solemnly stares back until she reaches for his wings. Harold doesn't flinch.

"Bird," she pronounces with suddenly peals of delighted laughter.

Hal and Harold laugh back.

*

Baby Harold relaxes into the sling Joan has given them.

"Sameen prefers her independence."

A sack rattles on the footboard of Hal's wagon, more donations from Joan. She's clothed Harold in a diaper and a singlet that's oversized so that it fits over his wings.

Hal shakes the reins, clucking at the horses, two elderly ladies who know the way home. He brushes his lips against Harold's head, amazed by the warm, hypnotic scent wafting gently from the back of his neck. 

This is going to be easy.

*

Until now, Hal's only shared his bedroom in the Ruins (known to old-timers as the Library) with Nora, Joan's sister. Nora, who's been buried 20 years past, along with their infant daughter. 

The sounds of scavaging creatures and night birds have never disturbed his sleep and so he's unprepared for the ear-piercing scream that seems impossible loud for such a scrap of a child. Fumbling with his electric lantern -his own invention- he can now see Harold turning from side to side, frantically searching for something or someone Hal's certain he'll never find.

"There, there," he says, pulling Harold's rigid body so that he's resting against his chest. Harold resists, staring wide-eyed and terrified, his shriek slowly tapering down to heartbroken cries.

"You don't know where you are," Hal says, patting the baby's back with a large, calloused hand. "I'll bet last night seems nothing more than a dream," he adds sadly, as he finally remembers to check the diaper for wet. Harold's sopping wet.

Removing Harold's shirt and diaper is a challenge and replacing them is impossible. Grabbing a spare blanket, Hal wraps Harold up so that only his tufted head is visible.

Taking a bottle of milk, gifted by Joan, Hal walks outside, finding the porch swing on which he had courted Nora so long ago.

Harold rejects the bottle but takes to the motion of the swing. Quieted down to a mousey little whimper. Casting his mind back to his youth, a memory of his child hits Hal with uncharacteristic strength.

"My granny had a song she'd sing when I was little," he tells Harold. "I remember the melody well enough but you'll have to forgive me if I only remember just a bit of it."

And as they rock the dawn breaks and Hal sings and Harold listens.

"Inchworm, inchworm, measuring the marigolds..."

Before he knows it, they are both asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Harold, Age 3

It's early yet but encouraged by Joan, Hal gives school a try. Maureen, the school marm, fixes him with a withering stare, causing him to sit taller on the child-sized seat across from her desk. He's glad that Harold is occupied at the chalkboard, working -not playing- with a bit of chalk. Numbers, not roughly drawn trees or dogs more typical of a child his age.

"Of course Harold is unsuitable for school," she says without prelude. 

"But..."

"It's not because of his physical impediment," she continues, the look of distaste she's displaying belying her words.

"I'd hardly call Harold's wings as an impediment," Hal responds, trying to maintain the volume of his voice. He turns to check Harold, who continues his task undisturbed.

"The boy doesn't speak. It also seems that his ears function poorly..."

"Harold hears just fine." 

Hal's confidence falters; he's gotten used to calling for Harold when Harold is working - even needing to tap him on shoulder to refocus him. And though it's true that Harold communicates in an uncommon way, by taking Hal's hand, leading and pointing at a desired object, lifting an eyebrow to emphasize his desire. Not to mention the omnipresent chirps, hums and whistles... She takes the bell from her desk and rings it loudly. Harold doesn't flinch. "Thank you for your time," Hal says, gently lifting Harold, who flaps his wings in annoyance. "Come along, Harold." * She leans down, squinting at the chalkboard, reading the child's perfectly tidy handwriting. "Knows his numbers," mutters, wiping the board clean. 3.1415926535 8979323846 2643383279 5028841971 6939937510 5820974944 5923078164 0628620899 8628034825 3421170679

"Can't even get the order right, the poor little dolt."


	3. Chapter 3

(Harold, Age 3)

They send the children out to play on the velvety courtyard lawn, giving chase to the first fireflies of the season.

Joan waits for Hal to gather her thoughts, her kind face encourages him, a man of few words ordinarily.

"It's started."

She knows what happens to the men of his line, Hal doesn't have elucidate.

"Hal..." she replies sadly.

He shows her his bandaged hand. "Two days ago I forgot I was cooking soup. I wouldn't even notice the smell of it scorching Harold hadn't given me a shake.  
Then I didn't have the wits about me use a cloth before grabbing the handle,. I dropped the damn thing, burned my palm plus put hole in my best soup pot."

Her lips thin. "Anyone could have..."

He looks down, fiddles with the bandage. "I got lost this evening coming home. I was halfway to the Barrens before I even noticed. Haven't lived there since I courted your sister. If Harold hadn't... damn it! I should be taking care of him, not the opposite. I'd hoped he'd go to school, fit in with the other kids. So he'd have some more people when I'm gone. But all the School Marm sees are his blue eyes and wings."

"Harold has me and he has Sameen. She's a sister to him regardless of blood."

Sounds of squabbling beneath the yard's back pines; Sameen pinches the tip of Harold's left wing and he chases it, spinning like a top.

Joan clicks her tongue. "Sammy was doing that yesterday, was a laugh for them both for a bit but she didn't stop until he held her firm by the shoulders and gave her that look of his."

Clearing his throat, Hal laughs. "I call it 'Blue Steel'. He used it to get out of two baths this week, all without saying a word."

"His tongue may not work yet but he weedled some sweets from me," she admits ruefully. "But he shared with Sammy, nice and even. Generous for someone so young."

"He's got gifts," Hal replies. "Poor child will need an advantage, growing up alone...Ow!" Hal rubs his arm. "Why'd you pinch me?"

"Because I didn't have a length of kindling to hit you upside that head of yours," she replies indignantly. "And if I hear you talking sorrowful again, I'll do it again. Harold's got challenges enough without you wallowing in self pity."

"His challenges? What, his blue eyes or his wings? Or do you think, like half the village, that he's stupid as well as deaf and mute?"

Joan stares at him as if he's grown another nose. "Have you taken leave of your senses? Harold is the most curious child I've seen. He explores everything he can fit in his hands and now you've fixed him with those goggles, he's unstoppable, as bad as a dozen cats at getting underfoot and into trouble."

"Got tired of him holding his books to his nose." Hal drains his mug, mollified by her vehemence. "He can read, you know," he adds, shy and proud.

Joan snorts in disbelief. "Harold's smart but reading?"

He can see her point, half the adult villagers are illiterate. " He's been reading for at least a year, maybe more. And that's nothing compared to his facility with numbers."

She's staring at him now, evaluating his lucidity, Hal guesses. 

"Yesterday Harold was drawing numbers in the clay outside my barn, nothing but oughts and ones. Was fit to be tied when the cows stepped through his scribblings."

She's the most open minded person Hal knows, she loves Harold and has seen the brightness of his pale eyes but she hasn't raised him. Hasn't had the privilege of being his parent. Abruptly, Hal goes to the door and calls him. Returning to the table, Hal brings the scorched and dented cooking pot along.

She traces the pot's long fissure within the dent. "That the one you ruined?" 

She's never been expert at sparing a person's feelings, Hal reflects, trying not to wince.

"Thank you, Harold," Hal says, ruffling his hair; Harold yawns, half-eyeing the large copper pot. "Remember when Daddy yelled and dropped this? Can you see where it's broken?"

Harold runs his fingers along the gap in the metal, careful to avoid a scratch.

"I think we should fix it, don't you? Maybe just hammer the metal flat?"

Harold scowls, shaking his head.

"How about plugging the hole with some cork?"

Harold yelps, falling to the floor in an exagerated death spiral, something Hal knows he's learned from Sameen. He reaches down and sets Harold back on his feet, careful not to bend his wings. "All right, Professor - how would you fix it?"

Harold looks towards the workroom and back at Hal.

"Go on Professor, go get what you'd use."

And damned if Harold doesn't make a darting gesture towards Joan before meeting Hal's eyes, one eyebrow raised. He knows, Hal recognizes, heart suddenly beating hard, to large for his chest. Harold knows somethings are secret, that there's reason to be wary. "It's alright, son."

Harold returns within minutes, arms burdened. He proudly places items on the table: heavy, elbow length leather gloves and a smoked glass visor, large tongs an rawhide mallet. He runs back, this time with a thin sheet of copper and a pair of shears capable of cutting it to shape. From his pockets, Harold retrieves a coil of thin metal and a gas torch of Hal's own invention.

"Brazing instead of lead?" Hal asks, briefly noting Joan's look of astonishment before turning

Harold, barely tall enough to see over the table, reaches up and taps the surface of the pot, a thick thump.

Hal nods. "You're right. Lead or silver solder wouldn't work, not strong enough for wear and tear. Would you help me make the repair in morning?" He wiggles the fingers of his injured hand. "I''ll even let work the torch!"

Harold grins, wings flapping furiously.

"That's my boy."


	4. Chapter 4

Maureen, the school marm, fixes Hal with a withering stare, causing him to sit taller on the child-sized seat across from her desk. He's glad that Harold is occupied at the chalkboard, working -not playing- with a bit of chalk. Numbers, not roughly drawn trees or dogs more typical of a four year old.

"Of course Harold is unsuitable for school," she says without prelude. 

"But..."

"It's not because of his physical impediment," she continues, the look of distaste she's displaying belying her words.

"I'd hardly call Harold's wings as an impediment," Hal responds, trying to maintain the volume of his voice. He turns to check Harold, who continues his task undisturbed.

"He doesn't speak. It also seems that his ears function poorly..."

"Harold hears just fine." He said this with less confidence; he's gotten used to calling for Harold when Harold is working - even needing to tap him on shoulder to refocus him. And though it's true that Harold communicates in an uncommon way, by taking Hal's hand, leading and pointing at a desired object, lifting an eyebrow to emphasize his desire. Not to mention the omnipresent chirps, hums and whistles...

She takes the bell from her desk and rings it loudly. Harold doesn't flinch.

"Thank you for your time," Hal says, gently lifting Harold, who flaps his wings in annoyance. "Come along, Harold."  
*  
She leans down, squinting at the chalkboard, reading the child's perfectly tidy handwriting. "Knows his numbers," mutters, wiping the board clean. 

3.1415926535 8979323846 2643383279 5028841971 6939937510 5820974944 5923078164 0628620899 8628034825 3421170679

"Can't even get the order right, the poor little dolt."


	5. Chapter 5

Harold, Age 5

The frozen grass crunches under his feet as Harold runs, full bore, for Joan's cottage. The moon shines brigh, enough to light the trail he knows by heart. He bursts through the door, startling Joan, who drops her ladle into her cauldron.

"PLEASE!" Harold grabs her shoulders. "P-l-e-a-s-e spells please! Please find my dadddy!"

She wraps him in her shawl. "Tell me what happened."

"Daddy said my Mama Nora was waiting out in the woods! I grab him but he don't stop, not at all," Harold sobs.

He's scooped up, placed under the covers with Sameen. "I'll go get him," Joan says and Harold believes her.

"Hey, Chicken Wing," says Sammy, her new nickname for him now that his soft baby down has rubbed off, leaving his wings temporarily bare.

Harold pinches her fondly. "I can talk now."

She throws her arm over him, pulling him close. "Always could," she yawns.

*

In the morning, Joan and Sammy pack their things. Harold carries Sammy's things to the room he insists they share. 

"You have a Mama and a Daddy now," Hal announces, damp-eyed and beaming.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a section that I missed.

Harold, Age 9

Harold knows all the kids in the village, at least until things changed, and knows about 'playing doctor'; Sammy's version is deadly serious. She measures him from stem to stern except he bats her hands and measuring tape away when she tries to measure his boy parts. 

"I am evaluating you for signs of primary and secondary sexual maturation," she insists but he refuses to budge on this matter. He also nixes a glimpse of the small, barely raised slit between his legs. 

"It could be a cloacha! That's what birds have," she continues, pointing to a child's book of biology. "This book is crap!" 

Gleaned from the book piles that remain in the bright, airy room on the first floor, 'Youth Services' the sign says. The books on the 2nd floor are 'Nonfiction" but most of what survived are literature, art and history, Harold's passion after mathematics. A sign pointing up the stairs to the 3rd floor reads 'Reference and Computer Services' but piles of rubble makes it impassable.

Dropping the subject, Sammy sits behind Harold, first listening to his breath sounds and then grooms his damp feathers, occassionally stopping to scratch him between his shoulder blades, an itch he can't reach now that his wingspan has expanded so greatly.

"Why didn't you want to go with Mama and Daddy?"

Harold blinks the stinging in his eyes while pretending to examine his nails. "You know why."

The village has grown into a small city since IFT, the building that's the birthplace of the Machine was discovered in the ruins just a few treacherous miles from the villages border, making it a necessary stop for the nonstop flow of adherents to the Church of the Machine determined to complete their pilgrimage.

"They stare, the strangers; even the adults try to pick my feathers. It hurts! They're the WORST!"

She rests her head between Harold's wings, which are colored soft brown and grey, like an owl's. She says nothing but wraps her arms around him so that he can feel the beating of her heart.

***

The midday sun grows intense for Harold's pale skin so they sit in the shade of the bushes and trees. She tosses a pamphlet at him as they get dressed, a fragile but still colorful pamphlet entitled, 'Becoming a Woman'.

"In case you have female organs, a uterus and so on," Sammy says seriously, her eyes suddenly distant. She's told him this before but has never had this worried look, though.

He gives her the look, the one his parents call 'Blue Steel'. 

She caves.

"I need information," she explains. "I need the good books, the ones on the third floor." Her face scrunches up. "Mama's sick."

The world starts to spin. Harold's concerns have focused solely on Hal's drifting mind, not the woman who has taken care of them all. He thinks about it and realizes that her weight has dropped visibly. Sammy tells him about certain herbal supplies have been drained, the kind Joan keeps behind lock and key (Sameen's already a gifted lockpick). 

"I have some ideas but need the books that could be up there," she says haltingly, pointing to the third floor. "You can do it, Chicken Wings."

It's not that he can fly. It's his weight to wing ratio, it's just inadequate. A brief glide downhill is all he's dared. No, it's his strong hands and arms that make him an extraordinarily gifted climber.

"Let's try."

*

The Reference Room is cool despite the heat of the day, Harold notes after dropping to the floor beneath the window, panting. There's very little dust and no sign of habitation by anything other than a family of owls perched atop a grouping of cabinets. He's itching to see what's beneath the tarps atop a long table next to a cracked but still functiona pane of glass still covered with peeling photographs.

It feels like coming home.

He's mastered the arcana of the Dewey Decimal System and it doesn't take long to fine heavy books of anatomy and medical terminology. With Sammy's leather pack almost full he selects a set of books, Principia Mathematica by someone named Isaac Newton. It's in another language but for Harold it hardly matters, not with the way his hair and feathers stand on end as he flips through the pages. 

He has to be quick but he wishes he could just stay, maybe work out a pulley system for the delivery of food and sundries. This is home and as he pulls off a tarp to reveal a set of metal and plastic objects...the word comes to him, a computer, he is absolutely certain.

He caresses it, tapping the numbered and lettered keys with a reverence he's never felt for anything. Of course it's dead, heck, it may even be from the the time of the Machine's birth almost three hundred years ago. Mama and Daddy will be home any minute, he's got to hurry. He kisses his fingertips, pressing them on the gleaming glass screen, murmuring,"I'll be back." 

At the window sill Harold adjusts leather straps to improve his grip, his wings keeping him from wearing it properly. He turns to give the computer one last look; he gasps. A pinpoint of light is in the center of screen and it is growing larger, filling it entirely, it's brightness hurting Harold's eyes. Then it speaks, the computer, a single word, a feminine voice that pure and sweet and so filled with longing. It's a shock that wrecks Harold's balance, sending him like Icarus to the earth below, saved by the instinctive spreading of his wings so that rather than dropping like a stone he spins like a child's toy, a whirlygig. 

He's alive. Alive enough to hurt, alive enough to wretched sobs of pain that he suspects are his own. Harold can ignore that as he fades in and out of blackness, concentrating on that single word that inexplicably evokes new emotion, filling him with enormous pride and and inexplicably love.

"Father."


	7. Chapter 7

Joss Carter, Aged 23

She putters around the room, a workshop of sorts, picking up items and putting them back - anything to avoid the injured boy sleeping on the pallet in corner, the child who is the reason Joss Carter, the youngest appointed Peacekeeper ever has been assigned to this backwater burg... The boy, still asleep, whimpers piteously and she feels a stab of remorse. After all, who is she to question the will of the Machine, she thinks, making the traditional Sign of the Circle over her heart. The Machine has Her Ways.

Self-chastened, Joss gazes at her reflection in the window, she straightens her uniform, enjoying the way the dark blue plays with her skin tone; she resists polishing the brass badge on her coat's left lapel, the outward proof of the promotion. She wonders about the boy, whom she's talked to observe and protect. So small to be worth the fuss despite the flamboyant oddity of his wings. There's been talk of other odd children but Harold is strictly Joss's pervue.

A scuttling, scratching noise in the rafters interrupts her train of thought and she instinctively checks on Harold. 

Still sleeping, a whiffling little snore from his prominent, rather beaklike nose, this Harold-child is as pale as the sheets that swaddle him. His ashy brown hair hair is damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead , his eyes...

Joss jumps back, gasping despite herself because she's never seen eyes so blue and so pale.

"Sorry," she says hurriedly, fumbling for the bedside chair. His eyes are unblinking, taking in the sight of her with an intensity that unnerves her. "I'm Joss. Your folks went to town and asked me to sit with you."

Shutting his eyes, he sighs, nodding.

"Would you like some water?"

Harold nods, grunting with effort (and no doubt, pain) as he carefully pushes himself up against the pillows. He takes the cup and drains it.

Taking it back, Joss fills it again, placing the cup on the bedside crate. Struggling to make conversation, she asks, "I wondered if you liked Green Tea, being a Harold and all."

Harold stares.

"You know, like the hymn? 'Green Tea"?" Feeling more awkward by the minute, she starts to hum and when he doesn't complain, begins to sing. 

Her voice is sweet and sure.

"The Founder, needing to stay awake  
Asked, 'Will you brew me some cof-fee?'  
So Harold searched but finding none,  
But then he discovered green tea.

Green Tea is what he brewed  
and.."

Harold rolls his eyes, cutting the song short. She raises an eyebrow. "Not a church goer?"

"It's just, that's a rip off of a 16th century English Ballad. Called Green Sleeves."

He coughs, clearing his throat. "Shakespeare mentions it, I could show you."

"Big reader are you?"

Harold rubs his right leg through his thick cast, wincing as a flight feather drifts from the wing closest to Joss; without thinking,she catches it."

"Among other things," Harold replies with a tone most adults never achieve, chivalrous and stern. He gestures towards her hand. "That's mine, may I have it?"

He puts the feather next to the cup. He turns back to he, obviously trying to return to polite. "Thank you. My sister is making me a pair of artificial wings. Just in case."

Creepy, she thinks, glad at the mention of his sister, a chance to change the subject.   
"Your sister, where is she?"

There's a new flurry of knocks and scratching up in the rafters. Deliberate, Joss finally realizes, finding nothing when she studies the shadows.

"Around here somewhere," Harold says, smiling. It's a sweet smile, a little crooked and thin, making him appear more like 6 years old instead of nine and it doesn't falter when a small wooden block the hurtles from the rafters, falling harmlessly between them.

Joss is losing it, only her years of army and then Peacekeeper training keeping her from letting loose a rain of profanities. All of her preconceived notions of this, her first assignment, have been torn to shreds by this so called child, this Harold who bested her at every turn.

"Are you alright, Peacekeeper Carter?"

She stands, ready to flee the room, to perhaps leave her vocation, certain that she hadn't told him her last name.

She thumbs the prayer beads in her pocket, taking deep breaths as he waits patiently. She's exhausted, had enough.

"I hear you're pretty smart. Not just about ancient literature."

Harold shrugs.

Enough.

"I've got to go now," she tells him, not missing the flicker of disappointment she sees. She reaches into her pack, retrieving a plastic cube comprised of individual colored bricks. 

"This is for you, something to pass the time," she says, handing it over, neglecting to say it's a bit of a test. 

Harold gingerly twist the cube, aligning a few of the colors.

"Your parents will be back in just a bit " she tells him but she thinks she's ignored. "Goodbye."

Joss Carter has scarcely past the yard's gate when a blurr of a girl darts around her, blocking her path. "Here."

The black ponytail could only mean Sameen, Harold's sister but all Joss can observe is the cube, the way the colors are perfectly sorted, one color per side.

"Harold says 'Thank you. And you that you can visit again...if you want."


	8. Chapter 8

February 24, Machinemas

For most people, Machinemas is the most beloved holiday of the year, second only to Restoration Day, when the Machine was brought back to life to defeat Samaritan (with a lot of help from The Founder and his friends).

Harold isn't most people.

"I'm not even sure I believe in the Machine," he had protested when Joss had come, last minute, to beg him to play the part of Harold the Helper in the annual town pageant. 

"You're a natural," she had wheeled, her eyes dark ringed as she attempts to soothe baby Taylor with her breast. "You have such a gorgeous voice."

Secretly mollified, he's not giving in so quickly. "Whoever heard of Harold the Helper having wings?"

"We don't know that he didn't," she retorts with the infuriating logic of the pius.

"My point. We know all about the Founder but nothing about this so-called Harold."

"There are some things you just have to take on faith," Joss replies. "And by the way, you don't need to believe in the Machine. She believes in you."

At 14, Harold's learned more tact than most boys his age and refrains from rolling his eyes. "Ok, I'm in."

*

Harold struggles as much with his pageant costume as with the gurgling, cramping pain in his gut.

"Nerves," he says softly.

"Hormones," opines Sameen loftily, a self-proclaimed expert on such things in no small part because she'd begu monthly cycle two years before, age twelve.

Harold catches himself before he can say anything to get her started; along with her period and breasts, her already salty personality had become sharper.

Forgetting his belly, he distantly rubs a tender bruise on his left upper arm. Much sharper.

"A lot of girls have it hard during their change," Dad says consolingly when Harold complained. "Lot of boys, too."

"Still not fair," said Harold under his breath, fidgeting with a loose flight feather that's been bothering him; wincing, he wrestled it free.

Hal reaches out and Harold hands it over: Dad has joined Sameen's wing-building project - on his increasingly rare good days.

"You're making it harder on yourself," he'd said, gesturing to the complicated set of leather traps and buckles that hold his wings painfully tight against his body, minimizing them enough so that with a cloak or heavy jacket they remain unnoticed.

Harold had scowled, turning heel. As if anyone else would understand.

*

"You're here!" laughs Joss, giving Sammy a hug while balancing baby Taylor on her hip. "I thought you'd be busy selling wares!"

"Speaking of which..." Sammy hands Harold a leather bag, half filled with coin. "About what you'd guessed, Chicken Wing," she adds glumly. "Enough until we get the garden going in the spring. Not enough to buy me that wolf."

Among the troupes of performers in town for Machinemas, there's an odd new act featuring (writ in dusty, worn scrolled letters on the sheets of canvas covering the entirety of the wagon)

"The Indistructable Baby"  
and  
"Savage Wolf"

Illustrated further with a painting of a tubby baby with an infectious grin and a nimbus of red curls nonchalantly eyeing a slathering black wolf of uncommon size, the wagon hadn't set up business unless you count the cardboard sign advertising 'Wolf for Sale, Cheep!!!"


	9. Chapter 9

It had become Sammy's passion, the purchase of said wolf, despite Harold's protests. "It will eat us. You, me, Dad," he had told her without much energy; Harold knows all too well that once his sister gets a notion in her head...

Joss skilfully snatches the coin bag from Harold's palm. After hefting it, she frowns. She unties the drawstring to peer within, the worried lines of her face deepening.

"I knew things were hard this year, your father not being as able..."

There's a loud, gleeful roar within the bar, Hal's distinctive laugh among the loudest, next to Uncle Ernie's.

Ignoring the irritation of the wing harness, his churning abdomen and Sameen's glum expression, Harold turns to Joss, thin lipped. "Dad hasn't completed a repair job in almost a year. Or built anything either, unless you count those damned wings he's obsessed with. The toys Sammy sold where built by me. A poor job I made of it, perhaps a quarter of the toys we'd normally sell."

Joss adjusts the baby on her hip, little Taylor begins to whimper to get down. Sammy takes him, making funny faces.

"I knew things were hard, but..." She finds a rickety chair. "With the baby and all of the new demands since the town was added to the pilgrimage..." 

"We can take care of ourselves," Harold pronounces with gravely. "Please don't cry," he adds more kindly.

After wiping her eyes, Joss opens a box, retrieving a huge mug that's emblazoned with the logos 'Hump Day' and YOLO. She hands it to Harold.

"The meanings are lost to us but I'm sure they're profound," she says, watching Harold reverently tracing the letters.

"Bladders must have been huge in the before time," Harold observes with an admiring whistle.

The mug is a prop; Harold the Helper, in a pivotal scene, uses it to dowse the Founder's computer keyboard.

"I have another if it gets broken. They're replicas from the Academy's bookstore. You"ll be able to buy your own soon."

His face growing an unpleasant shade of wey, Harold puts the mug down. "Very funny."

She grabs his elbow before he can storm out. "Stop." Slinging baby Taylor into Sammy's arms, making rapid shooting gestures with her free hand.

Sammy puffs at her bangs. "Whatever."


End file.
